Battles Won
by Emrisah
Summary: It was all part of the ritual. The walk, the flowers, the words. It had been thirty years, but nothing had changed. Not really.


_Just a small drabble I came up with after reading something on LGMH. I hope you like it._

_Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be._

Battles Won

The wind rustled through the leaves, their shadows throwing swirling patterns on the path before her. She shivered slightly, and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her steps taking her slowly but surely to the beautiful old oak on the northwest boundary.

Nearing the tree, she veered slightly to the right, and cautiously she lowered herself to the ground, knowing that a fall would just not do at this particular juncture. Once settled, she spead her skirts out, smoothing them down, making sure no folds or wrinkles dared show their faces. Then, she gently placed the small bunch of flowers at the base of the headstone, fingers softly smoothing over the words she had hoped never to read.

'Hello, my love.'

It was all part of the ritual. The walk, the flowers, the words. It had been thirty years, but nothing had changed.

Not really.

She told him how Eva was taking Broadway by storm for the third time in a sellout show, and was loving every minute of the grueling days and nights. How Andre was in the top ten singles charts yet again, even though he was somewhat over the 'appropriate' age for the teeny bopper fandom he had so desperately craved at the tender age of eleven all those years ago. It seemed his music was more suited to those his own age or older, and while that might have horrified him in his youth, she knew that now he couldn't be happier.

She told him about their old friends, some of whom were now her closest family. Their day to day interactions, weekly plans, weekend get togethers and general merriment were all mentioned. Amusing anecdotes, throwaway comments made from one to the other – nothing was left out.

She told him about her day, how well her students had done in their latest competitions, how her doctor was instucting her to take things more slowly, have less students now that she was 'getting on', how she had proven that there was nothing wrong with her voice or her wits by telling him _exactly _what she thought of _that _suggestion.

'Honestly, it was like he thought that just because I was nearing the end of my seventh decade of life all the usefulness I once had was now null and void! It was the most ridiculous thing ever, my love. But I told him what was what, and he soon recanted his previous, ahhem, thought.'

The whole time she had been speaking, her hands had been busy. A few stray twigs here, some fallen leaves there. Some patches of moss that had the nerve to start growing at the base of the plinth were soon no more than a smudge on her fingertips.

Slowly, however, her voice faded away, and she just sat, and stared. While she wished with all her heart that she should never have had to read these words, at the same time she couldn't not read them, either. It was like a battle she had to win with herself, every week, no matter what.

As they always did, the words grew blurry as the tears filled her eyes, before clearing again as the tears spilled down her cheeks.

'Oh, my love. They said it would get easier. I told them they were wrong, and they patted my hand and said of course, but I knew they didn't really believe me. And how could they? Little did I know when I likened our love to Shakespeare's ill-fated lovers how right I would be . . . ' Clasping her hand to her chest, she bowed her head and wept, the deep ache she felt an old companion, never far but now more promenient, as always.

Minutes, hours, days passed. The crunch of leaves made her aware of her surroundings once more, the hand on the shoulder not at all a surprise. She knew it would have come eventually, as it always did, along with the soft voice urging her to get up, she had to go back, it was time to go.

Every week, she forced herself to go, to not stay here, mourning, to not lay herself down and slowly just . . . fade away. She knew that was not what he would have wanted, so she kept going as she had these last thirty years.

Because she was a fighter, and she would be dammed if she would give up.

But oh, how insidious the temptation was. Some weeks it was easier to resist, but it was always there, pulling at her, couching its sharp claws in velvet promises that were getting more and more difficult to resist. Each week, they sank a little deeper, drew a bit more blood.

She would resist. She always did. That didn't make it hurt any less. But it was like looking at those same words every week. It was just another battle.

And she would win it.

The hand at her elbow dropped away now that she was on her feet. Straightening her skirt once more, she turned her head away, not bothering to brush away the remnents of salt on her cheeks. She was about to start walking back, when the soft, broken voice at her side stopped her.

'It's been thirty years, Mom. Does it still hurt?'

Rachel looked up at her youngest daughter, one of the few who could come to this place with her every week. Not just to pay respects to the father she had never known, but because she had her own battles to win. Her own husband, now five years gone.

Gently, Rachel pressed her hand to her daughter's cheek, wishing that she could blunt the truth, but knowing that she couldn't. She would have done anything to spare her child this grief, and it broke her heart all over again to see the pain in those hazel eyes, eyes that were so perfectly matched to those of the man she loved. She knew her child was hoping for her to say something, anything that would give her hope for her own future, but that wasn't possible right now. The truth, no matter how wretched, would always be spoken.

'Oh, sweet child.' Rachel smiled a tremulous smile, fingertips grazing over cheekbones that belonged on a boy of so long ago. She glanced back to where she had been kneeling, the space before the headstone now marked only by the slight indentation of her hip, her eyes flickering over the message that was so engrained on her mind.

_Noah Puckerman_

_Son, Brother, Husband, Father_

_Friend_

_August 17, 1994 – September 14, 2032_

_Forever and Always_

Bringing her eyes back to her daughter, she saw the tears pooling there, and knew they were echoed in her own.

'Does it still hurt?' She repeated, her fingers now brushing away the wisps of brown hair the wind had dragged across the young woman's face.

'Do you still breathe?'

_Any questions, queries or quips, feel free to leave a review or PM me. Thanks so much for reading!_

_Em_


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